


Required Taste

by lilien passe (lilienpasse)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:54:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilienpasse/pseuds/lilien%20passe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Requisite Coffee Shop AU. Ludwig is a barista enamored with a rainy day customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Required Taste

**Author's Note:**

> so i wrote this little drabble at the semi-request of luci, who i sort of adore to death. (she also runs an amazing ask ludwig blog). she suggested a bakery AU when i gang-pressed asked her for requests, and as i had yet to do a requisite coffee shop AU, i decided to go for it! this isn’t my favorite drabble by a long shot - i think it’s kind of clunky - so sorry, luci! ;; i did my best.
> 
> thank you as always to whoever reads these silly things. <3

There was something strangely intimate about watching someone open an umbrella.

They stepped out into the rain, droplets clinging to their hair, their coat, their scarf as fingers warmed from too many cups of coffee fumbled with the metal fastenings.

It was rare to see someone open an umbrella. A privileged moment. People either walked through the rain with their portable roofs already over their heads, stoically paraded through the downpour, blinking water out of their eyes, or made a mad dash for shelter. But when the rain started, the first few drops, the first crack of thunder made eyes turn warily up, there was a moment of intimacy. Vulnerability as they scrambled to save themselves from a few pricks of water. Rooting around in their bags, their briefcases, looks of dismay flashing across their faces when they realized the instrument of their salvation was still at home, at their girlfriend’s, forgotten under a desk.

Then the streets bloomed with color. The stoic businessmen with their grays and browns. Young children with bright yellow, pink, frog-shaped or dinosaur. Fashionable women with umbrellas of pink silk, equally fashionable men with purple. The world that was gray and dull with clouds was painted over by the cascade of umbrellas, moving with the flow of the rain as one by one metal and plastic blossomed.

Rainy days were Ludwig’s bane. 

Those same pretty colors dragged in wet and mud until a little lake formed in front of the counter. They were a bakery first and foremost, the manager finally breaking down to buy an equally broken down espresso machine in the face of the university crowd. Pretentious graduate students would cluster around the machine, demanding things of him that he had no intention of making. So long as his manager wasn’t glowering at him.

It had taken him a month to master the machine beast. Bread was easy to make. Simple ingredients, don’t kill the yeast, bake in a proper oven. Voila. You had bread. Muffins, cookies, scones, cupcakes, pastries. Simple recipes, consistent results.

Coffee was another matter.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t make a cup of coffee. He could make a cup of coffee. He could make an espresso, Americano (which was cheating, completely cheating, just adding water and charging more), latte, cappuccino. Milk heated to a precise sixty five degrees, proportions accurate to within an ounce, and still they complained. Too much milk, too hot, the espresso wasn’t dark enough.

More than one customer had gotten a latte spilled in their lap. And god how he hated grad students.

Coffee addicts, all of them, who would sit in the chairs for hours, forcing other customers to take a look around the shop and leave. If this were a bar, and Ludwig were a bouncer, they would be outside the moment he lost a potential six dollars. But Ludwig wasn’t a bouncer, the tiny, corner bakery wasn’t his private boxing ring, and rainy days were the absolute worst.

Everyone wanted coffee on rainy days. The line went out the door, the grad students grew crotchety as their shoes filled with water, as ‘invaders’ to ‘their’ shop stole the seats, the plugs where their iThings normally rested for hours on end, the floor grew a moat, and the air thick with steam.

One gray thing made the rain bearable, and made Ludwig remember to watch the people that left the store fumble for their umbrellas, to think that they were people again and not a pair of muddy shoes or a wallet of money or a spilled Americano.

Ludwig glanced over the machine at the long line of rain-splashed faces, searching for the one he knew. Most of the customers were regulars. Professors, grad students, construction workers irritated by the long line of intellectuals slowing up their orders. Customers who showed up when the rain did.

The bell over the door chimed, and Ludwig’s hand shook a bit as he poured the coffee, ducking his head to hide behind the few strands of hair that had fallen out of his severe hairstyle.

The man put his bright red umbrella with all the others, the cherry standing out from the uninteresting yellows and browns and blacks. He took his place at the end of the line, long fingers running through ashen blonde hair, violin case sliding down his shoulder a bit before he made a quick grab for it.

The rain brought him. Every time without fail it was even drizzling, the pale man walked through the doors, the violin case over his shoulder, scarf around his neck, and red umbrella in his hand. Most of the regulars ordered the same thing every time, and got pissy if it was a degree off or a centimeter too much milk, but the pale man was the exact opposite. A different thing off the menu every time. A different challenge, and if it tasted the same as something else, he’d order it again until it was different.

That had been the break in the pattern that bought Ludwig’s interest. Not much caught it. The espresso machine didn’t, that was for certain. It was his mortal enemy, but it wasn’t interesting enough to keep his attention. The graduate students were the same. Spouting steam and whining and constantly having little meltdowns. Eerie and obnoxious similarities that tested Ludwig’s patience every day.

But the pale man was always different. Sat the appropriate amount of time in the seat, long fingers wrapped around the Styrofoam cup, finished his drink, and stood. The cup would be brought back to the counter, and the pale man would lean across, and say in a voice surprisingly grating and brusque for a musician,

“Best fuckin’ cup of coffee I’ve ever had. What was that, cinnamon?”

“Best cup of coffee. You put hazelnut syrup in?”

“You’re a genius with that foam… thinger. Cocoa on top? Hint of chocolate shavings?”

Each time Ludwig would be flustered on how to respond, and like any number of men his size and with his disposition, he responded by shutting down, fiddling with the towel over his shoulder, and muttering the answer under his breath.

It was usually a no. The man had the worst sense of taste of anyone Ludwig had ever met. And from the few times he’d come in the bakery singing, he had an equally bad sense of tone. Ludwig shuttered to think what kind of abuse the man’s violin suffered.

He had no name. Always paid in cash, no chance to even see a credit card. Not that it mattered. Ludwig would feel too guilty to try and catch a glimpse, although the way the man held out his change, his long fingers…

Ludwig wondered how he signed his name. The loops and swirls, jagged, rough marks that spelled the letters of his existence. He wasn’t as concerned with what the letters were, just how they looked. Just as he wasn’t interested in hearing the man speak his name, but how his lips would form around the sounds. The shape of the print left behind by his boot. Why he insisted on a different drink, why he insisted its name be withheld, why he came up, thanked him for the drink, guessed wrongly every time. Why he only came when it rained.

The line of customers stretched on for forever, and Ludwig’s impatience was growing thin. He ignored several complains of scalded milk, dispersing the two reedy voices with an unimpressed glare and offer for a refund even as his hand rested protectively over the cash register. The last uninteresting one in line left, balancing her double whip half fat cappuccino with two pumps of sugar free hazelnut syrup atop a stack of books on Proust.

The pale man sidled up to the counter, resting his elbows atop the pitted wood in a gesture of comfortable familiarity.

“Hello,” he said politely, thin lips pulled up in an amused smile. “Nice to see my favorite barista is grouchy as always. And on such a lovely day, too.”

A bolt of lightning lit up the street outside, making the umbrellas scatter for non-metallic cover.

The pale man laughed, ragged fingernails drumming on the counter. Ludwig continued to dry the milk steamer he’d just rinsed, one eyebrow raised.

“As always, you have odd concepts of lovely,” he finally said, hooking the steamer back into the machine and giving the grumbling customer behind the pale man an even stare until he cooled his jets. As his mother would say. Cooling jets, idioms were bizarre.

The man just hummed and tilted his head to the side.

“I’ll have the usual,” he said lightly. “A big one, today. Something… zappy. I’m in a very zappy mood.”

Ludwig nodded and began making the man’s drink, dumping two shots of espresso into a cup and adding steamed milk with a bit of chocolate and cayenne pepper. Whipped cream and salt on top. Just a bit to bring out the chocolate. The man hummed softly under his breath as Ludwig worked, his eyes closed and a pleased smile on his face.

“Smells good. Coffee always smells good,” he murmured, fingers tapping away at the counter. Ludwig grunted quietly in agreement, carefully wiping away a dollop of chocolate with the towel around his neck. Coffee did smell good. As did the pastries in the display case, the bread baking in the back that the later customers would come by, after the rush of caffeine addicts had drifted out the door on their merry way. The bakery customers were Ludwig’s favorite. Next to the pale man. They didn’t make him use the machine, they didn’t complain. Took their purchases and left their money.

Ludwig set the drink down on the table, a confident smirk on his face. “Five,” he said, holding out his hand. It was always five dollars. Sometimes a bargain, other times good Lord he was robbing the man blind. It evened out in the end.

The man fished his battered leather wallet out of his pocket and gently placed a five in Ludwig’s palm, tapping his nose and giving the barista a little grin.

“Oh, someone thinks he’s clever…”

He brought the cup of coffee to his nose, inhaling for a moment before letting out a triumphant, “Aha!” He pointed a finger at Ludwig.

“Today. Today I’ll get you to say yes,” he threatened, shouldering his violin case again and sidling off to his normal seat, scarf fluttering behind him. The one no one wanted on rainy days because it was right next to the window, and the chair always got wet from the condensation. A thousand trapped breaths leaving their mark on the glass.

Ludwig watched the man sip his coffee, his long fingers twitching to some silent beat, clever mouth curled in a permanent smile, odd, pale eyes darting around the room. Not with nervousness or anxiety, just a detached interest in his fellow coffee drinkers, providing him entertainment, new melodies for his fingers to drum and raspy voice to hum.

Ludwig fiddled with the espresso machine as it started to hiss, glancing up at the man in the corner every now and then. Such slender bones in his wrist… he had callouses on his fingers, ink stains on the outside of his index finger. A writer, a musician and god he was so strikingly b-

Ludwig hissed and jerked away from the espresso machine as it won a battle. He sucked on the burn before moving to run it under cold water, shooting the machine an angry glare and muttering under his breath, “Touché, Espressomatic.” He had been starting to sound a bit… stalkerish. It was bad enough he looked forward to the rain, now he was injuring himself spacing out and staring at the man. A customer. A regular customer of the past ten months whose name he didn’t even know. He even knew the names of the ones he hated, but he didn’t know anything about the one he liked other than the details he gleaned in the most unsettling ways.

An aggravated clearing of the throat caught his momentary attention, and he turned his glare on the impatient customer. He held up his hand, the towel still wrapped around it.

“Do you mind waiting for me to make sure I don’t leak serous fluid into your coffee, or do you want to take the risk?” he deadpanned.

The man looked unsure, and then slowly asked, “What’s ser-“

“Stop.”

The man stopped.

Ludwig checked on his wound, breathing a sigh of relief. Not blistering too badly. Good. He didn’t need to deal with another bad burn from the hell beast.

He slowly got back to work, making the man’s drink and pushing it across the counter, watching the customer scuttle away mumbling, “Serous what…” under his breath.

The line diminished, Ludwig got back to work cleaning the machine, casting glances towards the corner seat every so often. The man had set his coffee aside, and was on his cell phone. Using his index finger to type like a seventy year old at constant war with technology. It was charming, endearing in the same old-fashioned way as the bills he used to pay his coffee, the way he held open doors for everyone, the polite greeting every day.

But the look on his face wasn’t quite so charming. Lips were pressed thin, brows furrowed, eyes downcast.

Ludwig quickly turned away, forcing himself to ignore the customer. A man whose name he didn’t know was sad. There were thousands of people sad at this moment, probably a thousand outside on the street under their umbrellas who were slowly trudging home to go sob alone in their beds. One man amongst all of those wasn’t special.

Ludwig continued to distract himself with cleaning until the man finally put away his cellphone. He sat still in the chair, condensation dripping into his hair, but he stared blankly ahead for a long time, ignoring the persistent drip. Ludwig scrubbed at a stain that had been there since the time dinosaurs roamed the earth, needing something to busy his hands. Busy hands meant a silent brain. Silent brain meant no worrying about the odd behavior from the customer. No worrying about the slight tightening of his chest at the man’s smile, the way the red umbrella always caught his eye, his slow, growing love of the rain.

The man finally stood, grabbing his drink, and Ludwig ignored the way his stomach flipped with anticipation. He had no doubt the man would guess incorrectly again. He always did, he always guessed something completely wrong and it was so charming the way he pitched a little fit, swore revenge next time, would laugh and salute and compliment him and thank him like none of the other customers ever-

The man threw the cup away in the garbage.

Ludwig watched the man pick out his umbrella, the red blossoming as he stepped outside. Fingers had stuck on the metal. Feet stumbled over the curb as he stepped outside, bell chiming and ignored by everyone but him.

Ludwig remained still for a moment before fishing out a pen and paper. He wrote down the drink, the date, and stuck it on the bulletin board. Just in case he came back to guess. He returned to work, finally moving to take out the garbage after putting it off for hours. He picked out the top cup, the pale man’s drink, and stared at the writing on the bottom. Just a simple question that he hadn’t even expected him to find. Not really. But sometimes the man would inspect the cup when guessing, as though it would give him clues, and maybe today… he would have.

Ludwig shoved the cup back in the bag, tied it up, and unceremoniously deposited it in the large dumpster out back for the crows to pick through.

It rained every day that week, but the man never returned. Ten months of rainy days overshadowed by a week of no red.

People asked about the drink posted on the bulletin board. Was it really that good? It didn’t sound very good, and really pepper in a drink? Who had made up that? Could they try it? Ludwig would grow quiet and then respond that it had been a failed experiment.

He didn’t recommend it.

A cold wind blew away the clouds at the end of the week, the street lost its colored spots and grew bland and uninteresting once more. The normal crowd tapered off, more drawn to the chains sprouting up in green and white across the campus.

Ludwig got back to baking, the espresso machine grew lazy in its state of semi-retirement, and the note on the board grew faded with the obnoxious light that insisted on cheerfully streaming through the windows.

One day, the light was thankfully strangled. The first rainy day in a long time, and suddenly the grad students were popping up like mushrooms again. Apparently the place across campus had committed the gross indecency of exploiting people, some people, somewhere, that they would never meet, but that they were very enraged about. On their behalf, of course. It had to be exhausting getting that angry about every little blight upon humanity.

Said the man who was ready to rip out the metal intestines of his insentient arch enemy.

Ludwig fell into the rain pattern. Made the normal drinks, received the normal burns, the normal complaints, cleaned up the normal moat.

The bell above the door chimed, and Ludwig glanced up to see the face of his next torturer.

Long fingers closed a red umbrella, and the man glanced around the shop, looking like an adult who had stumbled into Narnia. Lost, haggard, embittered, guilty. Eyes sunken and sodden hair falling over his forehead, cheeks too pale for the cold wind outside to have touched them.

He didn’t wear the look well.

Ludwig cleaned the counter, keeping his eyes down, ignoring the twisting in his gut at the sight of the stranger. The man’s face was gaunt. His violin was gone, his fingers trembled as they tapped against the counter, the smile on his face a complete lie.

“Hello. Been a while.”

Ludwig glanced up from the counter, his expression never breaking as he took in the missing details. No ink, nails chewed to the quick, scarf gone.

“Has it?” he asked politely, and then winced. Cold. God he sounded so cold. But what was the normal tone of voice to take with a prodigal customer?

The man didn’t seem to notice or care. He merely shrugged and then said quietly, “I’ll take a coffee. Just black is fine.”

He slid a credit card across the counter. Ludwig saw a ‘G’ before he averted his eyes.

“…A coffee?” he asked, trying not to sound as hesitant as he felt.

“Did I stutter?” the man asked, not impolitely. He tapped his finger against the card, red eyes glancing off to the side. “Could you hurry up, please? I don’t want to keep the people behind me waiting.”

Ludwig started a bit, but then nodded and silently made the drink. He grabbed the pot of drip coffee and poured the black liquid into a cup. He stared at it for a moment and then glanced up at the note.

Without a word, he emptied the coffee into the sink and fed the empty cup to the machine. It hissed gleefully, pouring two espresso shots into the waiting cup. Ludwig added chocolate, cayenne pepper, whipped cream, salt. He set the drink down and held out his hand.

“Five, please.”

The man narrowed his eyes, staring at the drink as though it were an adder.

“…That’s not a black coffee.”

Ludwig tapped his fingers anxiously against his leg, but his expression never faltered.

“I’m aware of that. Five, please.”

The man gave him an odd look, his red eyes narrowing in confusion before he slowly fished out his wallet again. He had to count out crumpled ones, digging quarters out of the nearly-rusted shut coin pouch. He set the money on the counter.

“I, uh… only have three fifty?” he said slowly, his rough voice slightly unsure.

“Close enough.”

Ludwig swept the bills and coins into the cash register and handed out the drink.

The man slowly took it, long fingers brushing against Ludwig’s for a moment before he mumbled a quiet, “Thank you.”

He turned and started to head towards the door, but then suddenly changed direction, Converse shoes slipping on the wet floor as he struggled for traction.

Ludwig returned to serving his customers as the man took his normal seat, sipping slowly at his drink. Pale cheeks grew slightly flushed with color, hair lost the dull shine of the rain as the man sipped at his coffee and chewed at his nails. Ludwig was too busy to catch the furtive glances, the slight trembling of fingers and lip, the way the man tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and fiddled with a scarf that was no longer there.

The shop slowly emptied, cups piling up in the trash can by the door, umbrellas disappearing from the stands until only a few abandoned were left.

Ludwig wiped down the counter, cleaning up a bit of milk from where an angry customer had slammed their drink down, demanding a refund because it had scalded him.

Ludwig had politely scalded him again. On accident of course.

Outside, the clouds slowly boiled, swallowing up the rain. The color disappeared from the street, and the shop grew dark as the seconds ticked by.

Ludwig cleaned the espresso machine, blue eyes fixed on his work even as he heard the scrape of a chair against wet tile, the squeak of rubber, the gently clack of a cup being set down atop a newly polished counter.

Ludwig glanced up, catching the man’s eyes before the pale man looked away. Long, bloodied fingers tapped neurotically against the counter, nails and cuticles chewed beyond easy repair.

Ludwig took a few steps towards the man, crossing his arms over his chest, one eyebrow raised. The man’s eyes darted around nervously before glancing up at Ludwig through pale lashes.

“That-…”

He cleared his throat and straightened up just a bit, his fingers falling still.

“That… was one of the worst cups of coffee I’ve ever had,” he said softly, thin lips quirking up into an empty smile. “What was in there? Raspberry?”

Ludwig followed the man’s gaze up to the bulletin board, and then slowly reached up to tear the piece of paper down, crumpling it up into a ball and tossing it in the bin.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Raspberry it was.”

The man looked thrilled, clutching the cup to his chest. Ludwig ignored how bright his eyes suddenly were, conveniently missed the slight hitch to his voice.

“Really? I-… I got it right?”

“Really,” Ludwig said, subtly kicking the trashcan farther underneath the counter. “Guess I’ve lost my touch in your absence. No one to challenge me.”

The man laughed, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the Styrofoam.

“Can I play again?” he suddenly blurted out, and then winced. “Ah-… I don’t have any cash left.” He fumbled for his wallet before holding out the card again, a hopeful look on his face.

Ludwig glanced down at the card. ‘RT’. Just to the right of the man’s thumb. He slowly took the card, turning it between his fingers before catching the man’s eyes. He wanted to ask where the scarf was. Where was his violin, why black coffee, the card. Why he was different. Why he had lied just to see the man smile.

Ludwig swiped the card, charging twenty cents, and then held it back. He stared at the register, at the band of paper it spat out with a name scrawled at the bottom. He ripped the receipt, grabbed a pen and set both on the counter in front of the man.

“…I’m Ludwig.”

The man took the pen, twirling it between his fingers as he stared at the receipt. He finally signed his name, and Ludwig watched the blue trail form elegant loops, curving around on itself. The man pushed the receipt across the counter and picked up the new drink, thumb brushing against a drop of raspberry syrup dribbling down the side.

“Do you know if it’s supposed to rain tomorrow?”

Ludwig bit his lip to keep from smiling, slowly cleaning up the counter again. For the thousandth time.

“All week,” he said quietly, glancing up as the door chimed.

The man stood in the doorway, a thoughtful look on his face as he opened his umbrella with one hand, the movement somehow elegant despite the threat of scalding coffee.

“Can I come back an’ guess tomorrow, Ludwig? Maybe see if I can get three in a row or somethin’? The impossible dream?”

Ludwig snorted quietly and rolled his eyes, the receipt crinkling in his grip.

“Of course. Whenever you feel like it. Doesn’t even have to be raining.”

The man laughed, the noise echoing through the empty café.

“How courteous. It’s a date, then.”

With a wave of bloodied fingers, the man slid out the door, sipping his coffee as he walked, red umbrella resting on his shoulder.

Ludwig watched him go until the red disappeared around a corner. He let out a slow breath and smiled like an idiot at a deadly espresso machine. He set the receipt down on the counter, blue eyes flickering across the scribbled name before he carefully filed the piece of paper next to its other, less important siblings in the register drawer.

He grabbed a piece of chalk and the stepstool, reaching up to write in his meticulous script on the chalkboard menu.

Double shot, chocolate, cayenne pepper, whipped cream, salt.

Inquisitive souls only.


	2. Guessing Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sequel to 'Required Taste'. Relationships develop, pasts emerge, and Gilbert is obnoxious pretty much in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really didn’t think that this would happen, but for some reason I ended up writing a sequel to the coffee shop Au request I did for Luci a while back. It hasn’t been edited so read at your own risk. I’ll come back and make changes tomorrow. Hopefully. But it’s been so long since I posted anything I wanted to try and push myself to finish something. And this is what happened.
> 
> It’s really, stupidly sappy.
> 
> Also just stupid.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> P.S. – I considered calling this “Two Tasty” because it’s my first ever sequel and the first one was called “Required Taste.”
> 
> Nailed it.

Rain gently tore down the colorful leaves outside, making the sidewalk a patchwork of orange and red and yellow. Forgotten umbrellas hibernated under damp chairs, waiting for a needy soul to wake them.

The few customers in the café were seated on the plush benches around the windows, working on their laptops and watching the rain and ignoring the man perched on the counter with the blindfold made of napkins around his eyes and the barista brandishing the tasting spoon.

“You said you weren’t going to cheat this time.”

“Cheat? Cheat?! How dare you! I’ll have you know that first of all cheatin’ at this game is impossible, and secondly why would I cheat? What could I possibly gain from-“

“You punched holes in the official blindfold while my back was turned.”

Ludwig leaned forward to peer through the tiny holes at Gilbert’s red eyes, a little smirk on his face.

“You move quickly. I commend you.”  
Gilbert scoffed and pulled backwards, fiddling with the napkin blindfold before he said in an affronted voice, “Well you shouldn’t have made the blindfold out of something so easily punctured.”

“A horrible oversight. I left my lead blindfold at home,” Ludwig deadpanned, pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket as Gilbert tugged off the paper one. Ludwig carefully folded the handkerchief, stealing a glance at Gilbert out of the corner of his eye. The pale man was sitting cross legged on top of the counter next to the espresso machine. Bottles of flavored syrup were lined up on the other side, in order from ‘delicious’ to ‘are you trying to fucking poison me’.

Gilbert’s lips were a mix of purple and blue and green from the syrups, and the look on his face was torn between disgruntled and fascinated. A pink tongue darted out from between the stained lips, licking up the remnants of the syrup. Ludwig stared transfixed for a moment before a slight shift in the albino’s shoulders made him quickly turn away.

He felt creepy.

Like one of those guys on twenty twenty who became obsessed with a woman and the end result was a severed head buried in their backyard.

Ludwig didn’t want to be the guy who ended up with the severed head.

And this internal monologue wasn’t making him feel any less creepy.

He forcibly derailed his thought train, killing hundreds (creepy god what was wrong with him), and then turned back to Gilbert, his face impassive once more.

He had a crush. Like a stupid boy in middle school he had a crush on the man who until a couple weeks ago was just the violinist in his café who showed up when it rained. Now he showed up with the sun, the gloomy cloud cover of late fall, almost every day he came barreling through the door. At first he had stayed in the corner, talking only when he ordered and when he came back to guess the drink. But slowly, very slowly, he’d migrated towards the counter, and one day, exactly eight days ago, he’d sat down atop it.

Ludwig had pointed out the incredible number of health code violations.

Gilbert had taken off his shoes and said well now we don’t have a problem anymore do we.

Ludwig had said why are you wearing Star Wars socks.

Gilbert had said that was none of his business and that Lando Calrissian was vastly underrated.

The number of violations had continued to skyrocket.

Ludwig had ignored them. For Lando’s sake.

That day, with Gilbert sitting on the counter, talking almost constantly to him for hours, the crush had hit Ludwig like a Mack truck. He’d dropped a coffee pot when Gilbert had laughed, and staring down at the glass wreckage, knew he was in critical condition.

Ludwig didn’t get crushes. He didn’t drop coffee pots when someone laughed at something dumb he’d said, he didn’t wait every day to see if someone would show up, didn’t feel elated when they did, didn’t feel special and happy when they talked with him, when they sat down on the counter in their socks and watched him work.

He felt like he’d lost a contest.

A contest where the loser’s prize was to feel like he’d been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer every time he looked at the winner.

The winner in this case being Gilbert and god he needed to top this dumb eternal monologue before-

He let out a little yelp as he felt something wiggling around in his ear, and he jerked backwards, his hand flying up to press against the side of his head. He stared at Gilbert, his eyes slowly narrowing. The pale man was leaning forward, a coffee stirrer still in his fingers and an amused smirk on his face.

“You’re lucky this straw isn’t a Yerk,” he said gravely, waving the straw about. “You’d be a mindless automaton by now. Well except when the Yerk has to go to the Yerk pool and-“

“You stuck a straw in my ear!” Ludwig burst out, ashamed at how childish and indignant his voice sounded, but his heart was still hammering in his chest. He rolled his eyes a bit when all Gilbert did was laugh, and he grabbed the towel off his shoulder, mopping up an invisible spill on the counter as he muttered, “You’re a jerk.”

“Aw, c’mon, Barista-san don’t be rike that.”

“The racist accent isn’t helping.”

“…Vell vhat about-“

“No.”

He could hear Gilbert’s amusement skyrocketing to stratospheric levels.

“Germans are the same race as us. So you can’t say it’s raci-“

“Prejudiced.”

“-DAMMIT.”

Gilbert fell blissfully silent after that, and Ludwig got to work cleaning the machine and ducking into the back to see if the brioche was ready. The whole kitchen smelled like sugar and warmth and Ludwig let out a slow breath, trying to calm his mind. He worked slowly, taking the trays out of the oven.

What to do.

What to do.

Chocolate.

Chocolate brioche and asking Gilbert if he wanted to get lunch sometime.

God what was he thinking. He didn’t even know if Gilbert was-

Was what.

Into.

Men.

Ludwig groaned and pressed a brioche against his face.

He was the most pathetic thing ever.

After wiping the melted chocolate off his forehead, Ludwig headed back out into shop, working silently as he got the pastries settled in their display case. He could feel Gilbert watching him curiously but did his best to ignore him.

“What are those?”

“Chocolate brioche.”

A few moments passed in silence.

“What’s breeosh?”

“French bread.”

“How do you make it?”

Ludwig glanced over at the man perched on his counter, an exasperated look on his face.

“Do you really want to know or do you just want to talk?”

Gilbert scrunched up his nose, his tongue peeking out a bit between his purple-stained lips.

“Talk. But also I wanna know. Also you have chocolate in your eyebrow so I was wonderin’ if that was part of the process.”

Ludwig’s cheeks turned red and he quickly scrubbed his face with his apron before standing and clearing his throat.

“No. Massaging the dough with your face went out of vogue in the 1800s.”

Gilbert let out a bark of laughter and wiggled excitedly. “Too bad! I’d pay good money t’ see that,” he said in a teasing voice. “So… is the game over? Did I win?”

Ludwig examined the line of syrups, ignoring a customer for a moment before shaking his head and turning to take the disgruntled-looking man’s order.

“You have yet to guess a single one correctly. So no, I’d say it isn’t over,” he deadpanned, placing several cookies and breads in a box for the customer. He tired it with string and took the man’s money before focusing his attentions on Gilbert again. The man was very obviously pouting, like a small child who had opened a box marked N64 only to discover it stuffed with tube socks.

That was an odd thing to think. What was an N64 even. That story wasn’t his.

“Barista. I said I wanna keep playin’.”

Ludwig started out of his incognito reverie and reluctantly brandished the tasting spoon again.

“We’ve gone through every flavor twice,” he reminded him, moving to help secure the blindfold. Gilbert crossed his legs and nodded solemnly.

“Which means there’s a high probability I’ll get it this time, right?” he said, his voice bright with false hope.

Ludwig merely snorted and poured a bit of raspberry syrup into the spoon. Gilbert had liked that one, if ranking system held true. He set the bottle down and turned to press the spoon against Gilbert’s lips, thinking for the millionth time how ridiculously inappropriate this was.

The slurping noises didn’t help.

“You’re disgusting,” he muttered, his cheeks as red as the drop of syrup dribbling down Gilbert’s chin. The pale man smirked and lifted a corner of the blindfold, his dark eyes fixed on Ludwig’s face.

“Or someone’s just got a dirty mind,” he said teasingly, lowering the blindfold again. “And you do realize that I’m not an idiot. That was strawberry. Right? See. See here’s my genius plan. The bad guys always monologue at some point and give everything away so this is my monologue. Pretend you’re strapped to somethin’ deadly or explosive or are about to be eaten slowly by lamprey eels. No one’s taste buds are that bad. Really. I mean c’mon, unless you have the world’s worst cold there’s no way. I’ve just been pretendin’ this whole time! Normally you would’ve retreated to your bakery kitchen lair by now but with this I-“

“It wasn’t strawberry.”

Gilbert immediately fell silent. His fingers gave a little twitch.

“…What.”

Ludwig bit back a laugh. Gilbert sounded like someone had told him his hamster had been sucked up by the vacuum cleaner. Another metaphor that wasn’t his that came from a story that he hadn’t been a part of.

He leaned in closer, ignoring pointedly the curious looks several of the walking wallets were giving him.

“I said it wasn’t strawberry,” he murmured quietly, his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear Gilbert’s breath catch, see the slight bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, heard the creaking of his joints as he slowly shifted backwards.

“Lu-…”

Gilbert swallowed again, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“…You’re lyin’.”

Ludwig wordlessly pulled away and grabbed the bottle of syrup, pressing it into Gilbert’s hand before moving to help another customer. He heard the other man curse softly, glanced over in time to see him looking his way before the blindfold covered his eyes again.

“…Not strawberry.”

“Not strawberry,” Ludwig echoed, handing the woman her change and starting up the espresso machine. “Don’t move. You’ll get burned.” He smirked a bit and murmured under his breath, “Like this game has already been doing to you.”

“I HEARD THAT.”

Ludwig had to bite his lip to keep from laughing and handed the woman her coffee before turning back to Gilbert again. He had to pry the bottle of syrup out of his grip, but then said gently, “Sorry. I interrupted you mid-monologue. What were you saying about no one’s taste buds being that bad?”

“Ha fuckin’ ha,” Gilbert snapped, his arms crossed over his chest. “Poor the next one, Barista. I’m not gettin’ any younger over here.”

“No, but what you are probably getting is diabetes from all this sugar,” Ludwig said mildly, pouring a spoonful of blackberry syrup. He was about to offer it to Gilbert when the bell chimed again. Ludwig glanced up just to make sure it wasn’t the manager (who wasn’t exactly the biggest Gilbert fan in the world), and relaxed when he saw it was just a nobody. A very tall nobody with a stupidly regal proboscis for a nose and a scarf that looked incredibly cumbersome and pretentious, but still. A nobody.

Ludwig ignored the man for the time being, as he did all his customers (it was important to establish dominance early in a barista customer relationship) and pressed the spoon against Gilbert’s lips.

“Right. If you get this one, I’ll concede that no one’s taste buds are that bad,” Ludwig said generously, laughing just a bit as Gilbert tried to talk with the spoon against his lips.

“You’re sush-… an as- FUCK. Guu-“

Ludwig let Gilbert clean himself up as he turned to help the tall customer. The man was staring at Gilbert – not unusual, considering most bakeries didn’t come with a show-off perched atop the counter - but the intensity of the man’s stare made Ludwig bristle.

“What do you want,” he said as politely as he could, his irritation rising as the man ignored him and took a few steps towards Gilbert. The albino was struggling with the blindfold, finally wrenching it off and throwing it in Ludwig’s direction as he howled, “You ass you didn’t even warn me how the fuck am I supposed t’ guess wh-“

Gilbert froze, staring at the customer.

The man smiled and watched the handkerchief flutter to the ground.

“You certainly do know how to emote, Gilbert.”

Gilbert’s face grew pale and after a moment he pointedly looked away. It made the man’s smile widen, but there were no wrinkles around his eyes.

“Except around me, it seems. I’m surprised to see you. How have you been?”

Ludwig glanced between the two, a sinking feeling in his stomach. If a commercial break had cut in at that moment with sneak peeks of next week’s episode where Gilbert got amnesia and his evil twin showed up it couldn’t have been more obvious. Gilbert’s tense shoulders, the stubborn set to his jaw, and his long fingers twisting the plastic straw in his grip until it was a roadkill snake said enough.

Ludwig took a step forward and asked again, “What do you want.”

He wasn’t sure if he was just talking about coffee and pastries anymore.

The man glanced towards Ludwig and then visibly dismissed him.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself. You haven’t shown up to rehearsal in weeks. The section is sorely lacking without you.”

Gilbert still didn’t move, but after an agonizing stretch of silence he finally mumbled, “I sold my violin. That’s all. So just-“

“What do you want.”

Gilbert glanced up at Ludwig in surprise, and after a moment the customer turned and gave the barista an amused look.

“Do you mind?” he asked pleasantly. “This is a private conversation.”

“What. Do. You want,” Ludwig repeated, taking a subtle step in between the man and Gilbert.

Every customer in the place was doing his or her best not to stare at the counter, but slowly every chair scraped across the floor until the shop had been transformed into a veritable auditorium.

A single douchebag in the back row sipped the dregs of his coffee. Loudly.

Ludwig threw a napkin holder at him.

The pale customer looked mildly surprised, his eyes passing over the audience (who did their best to look self-involved as usual and completely disinterested in anything other than dodging flying projectiles) and then said lightly, “Americano, please. With a shot of whatever syrup is coloring your counter patron’s chin.”

Ludwig’s eyes narrowed, but then silently got to work making the drink. He poured a shot of blueberry syrup in the coffee (the bottle closest to the ‘are you trying to fucking poison me’ end of things).

The man was speaking to Gilbert as Ludwig worked. In some language where half the words sounded rather pretty and the other half sounded like a German Sheppard trying to speak Czech.

Probably Ukrainian or Russian.

Ludwig contained his surprise when Gilbert responded in the same language, and he worked a bit slower, trying to internationally eavesdrop as much as possible. Even though he only understood one word in none, the tone of the conversation was enough to make whatever weird mother hen instincts had been mutating his personality come to the forefront. The moment the tall man took a step towards Gilbert, his soft voice slightly raised, Ludwig held the drink out right in front of his face.

“Five twenty six,” he said.

The man smiled pleasantly, staring cross-eyed at the cup. “Do you mind? I was having a conversation,” he said lightly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Sadly for the man, Ludwig wasn’t good at picking up social cues.

“Five twenty six. Would you like anything else.”

The man’s eyes narrowed and he stared at Ludwig for a moment before he smiled once more and took a little step back.

“No, thank you. I believe I’ve had my fill of this place,” he said amiably, setting a few bills on the counter and picking up his coffee. Pale eyes slid over to fix on Gilbert for a moment longer.

“I hope you’ll keep that in mind.”

Gilbert shot the man an icy glare and then stared at the floor again.

“As long as you keep your promise.”

The man smiled and sipped at his coffee before nodding towards Ludwig. “Quite good. Thank you.”

With an unnecessary and lavish flourish of his scarf, the man walked out the door. Ludwig glared at the door, his eyes following the man until he disappeared from sight. The audience of coffee sippers collectively cleared their throats and contorted their bodies until they were all facing outside again, their nonchalantness a suffocating blanket.

Ludwig silently got to work cleaning up invisible messes again, giving his hands something to do so he wouldn’t look at Gilbert. He wanted to so badly. He wanted to go over and comfort him if that’s what he needed or make a stupid joke or offer him hot chocolate. But instead he scrubbed the counters because that’s what he knew how to do.

He slowly ran out of counter space to pretend to wipe, and finally his cloth came to a halt next to Gilbert’s leg.

Ludwig cleared his throat and glanced up at Gilbert. The smaller man’s face was drawn and his shoulders were shaking slightly. Ludwig wasn’t sure if he should fetch a bucket or not, although the answer became a bit clearer when Gilbert reached for the bottle of raspberry syrup and started downing it.

Ludwig made an alarmed noise and made a grab for the bottle, but Gilbert somehow managed to dodge him and let out a warning growl.

“Back off, Barista.”

“Gilbert- what the hell are you doing?” Ludwig snapped, irritation and worry vying for dominance.

Gilbert clutched the bottle to his chest, his lips so red it looked like he’d just torn apart a wild animal with his bare teeth.

It was oddly enough a good look for him.

“Seeing as how this place doesn’t serve alcohol, I’m tryin’ t’ knock myself into a diabetic coma. Thought it would be obvious,” Gilbert mumbled, swallowing heavily.

Ludwig ran his fingers through his hair, doing his best to suppress the worried look on his face. He watched Gilbert take another shot of syrup, the man’s thin shoulders still trembling.

And it was too soon for a diabetic shock to set in.

Ludwig remained still for a moment longer and then reached out to gently pry the bottle of syrup out of Gilbert’s hands. With an easy, practiced motion, he slipped off his apron and draped it around Gilbert’s neck before turning around and getting back to work.

He could hear Gilbert shifting behind him, and after a bit the other man spoke.

“You know identity theft is a crime. I’m not-… Giwdul. Or a barista.”

“Even you can’t be that bad at reading,” Ludwig mumbled, the nervous quality to Gilbert’s voice making him falter slightly.

There came a quiet tapping noise, fingernail against plastic name tag, and Ludwig finally turned his attention to Gilbert again. The smaller man was fiddling with the strings of the apron, his lips still red and his eyes red too. Not just the irises.

“…Then I don’t get it,” Gilbert said quietly, his voice catching slightly. “What’s with the apron. Am I readin’ too much into it? Is Rosebud just a sled and Moby Dick just a whale and the green light meaningless?”

Ludwig shifted from side to side, debating his answer a thousand times before he mumbled quietly, “Your shoulders were shaking. I didn’t have a coat. In movies when someone’s shoulders are shaking the other person lets them use their coat. I had no coat. I had an apron. And now what was supposed to be a kind gesture is coming off as a little psychopathic so-“

“No!” Gilbert blurted out, and then shrunk backwards when Ludwig gave him a startled look.

“I mean-… it’s nice,” Gilbert tried again, wincing slightly. “Ah, sorry, that… sounds fake and weird. But… it. I uh…” He groaned and pressed his hands against his face.

“Sorry. I’m usually more eloquent than this. As you know,” he mumbled. “But I like the apron. Even if it is just a weird Rosebud Dick. Moby. Pretend I said Moby. And thank. You. For lendin’ it to me. As some sort of weird-ass Ludwig chivalry.”

Ludwig remained quiet, watching Gilbert slowly fall apart atop the counter, his chin a molted blue and red and his fingers digging just a bit too much into his skin to be a mere shield from embarrassment. Finally he took a small step forward, reaching around Gilbert and tying the apron strings for him. Gilbert slowly tilted to the side, resting against one of Ludwig’s arms.

“You said my name, finally,” Ludwig said quietly. “Big day in the bakery.”

Gilbert just nodded, still hiding behind his hands.

“Finally got close enough to the nametag to read it,” he mumbled. “Wasn’t sure if it was Elwig or Ludvans or what. I hate wearin’ my readin’ glasses. I look like a chump.”

“First of all, those aren’t anyone’s names. Ever. Outside of Battlestar Galactica. And secondly, no one says chump anymore,” Ludwig helpfully supplied, still fiddling with the strings that were already perfectly tied. “And thirdly, are you going to let go of my arm?”

Gilbert stubbornly shook his head, his fingers clutching at Ludwig’s shirt.

“Pretty sure you’re not done tyin’ a perfectly symmetrical bow or whatever it is you’re doin’,” he mumbled, leaning against Ludwig just a bit more. “You have no choice but t’ stay perfectly still like what you’re doin’ right now for a few more seconds.”

Ludwig shot the customers a glare in case any of them were gawking, and then continued untying and retying the strings.

They were quiet for a long time before Ludwig finally said quietly, “That guy was incredibly unsettling. Did he wander off the set of one of the Saw sequels?”

Gilbert let out a weak laugh and pushed himself upright, releasing his death grip on Ludwig’s shirt.

“He’s my teapot,” he said lightly, grabbing a napkin and starting to clean off his face. Ludwig plucked it out of his fingers and wet it in the tap before passing it back.

“Well obviously that’s going to require a bit more explanation so I’m going to make some drinks while you do that,” Ludwig said quietly, turning to the espresso machine and fiddling with the gauges.

Gilbert laughed weakly and folded the napkin in his lap, the blue and red mixing like tie dye on the white surface.

“He’s my teapot,” he said again, reaching out to kick Ludwig as the taller man started to reply, “Repetition isn’t explanation.”

Gilbert cleared his throat and tried once more.

“I have this teapot. My mom gave it to me, it’s a thing, just- leave it alone for now,” he said lightly, unfolding and refolding the napkin. “Anyway. It’s a really beautiful teapot. Pale green with dark green seaweed painted on it and little stylized red fish. I think it was made in Vietnam. Not the point.

“The point is I really like that teapot. I used it every day. I used it so often I didn’t even bother cleaning it properly. Just sort of rinsed it out. It was only tea anyway. But then one day I noticed a rust colored stripe along the spout. It couldn’t have appeared there overnight. It obviously had built up over weeks and months but I didn’t notice until that day.

“And it was like a lightbulb went off. I started to see the rest of them. The tea pot was ugly, it had been ugly for a long time and I hadn’t noticed.”

Gilbert shrugged again and pushed the napkin off his lap, glancing up at Ludwig through his lashes.

“I mean, not everything has t’ be beautiful anyway, right?” he said quietly. “The world can’t be Versailles. The first shock of beauty is amazin’, an’ the second, but by the third room the gold starts to get boring, the portraits repetitive. They had to keep tryin’ to outdo themselves with each room because without anythin’ ugly t’ compare it to, without any tea to stain the walls… it was borin’.”

He laughed quietly and fiddled with Ludwig’s nametag.

“At least, that’s how I justify it,” he said idly, glancing at the nest of hipsters by the window. “It put things in perspective. That ugliness was a part of life and without the stain on my teapot Versailles wouldn’t be a palace.”

The customers continued to chatter against the windows, and the quiet clink of an espresso cup resting in its saucer was Ludwig’s only response. Gilbert mumbled a quiet thank you and picked up the small cup, taking a sip before glancing up at Ludwig.

He licked his lips.

“Hazelnut.”

Ludwig nodded and set the bottle next to Gilbert, watching his pale fingers wrap around the cup.

The Mack truck slowly backed up and ran him over again.

Ludwig ran his finger over the rim of his own cup, staring at the dark coffee stains along the edge.

“Am I Versailles?”

Gilbert fell still at the question, the color of his cheeks and the slight tremble in his lips frozen in a single frame before he cleared his throat.

“You make French breads, I needed an elegant metaphor,” he mumbled, his foot lightly bumping against Ludwig’s shin. “Don’t question my methods.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ludwig said quietly, leaning against the counter.

“Good. Then.” Gilbert cleared his throat, his espresso cup clattering against the saucer. “Then I guess that means you don’t mind. Bein’ Versailles. ‘Cause I mean we haven’t known each other for that long. And stuff… well a lot of stuff’s happened lately. An’ you’re a really confusin’ guy t’ read, d’you know that. You don’t seem t’ get how normal people do stuff. Like you always glare at the customers until they put tips in the tip jar an’ you refuse to use the proper inflection an’ you do really weird stuff like stick your face in breads for some reason – don’t lie to me I know you did it an’ it’s a weird yet endearin’ character trait-“

Ludwig tilted his head back, staring at all the pretentious local art affixed to the walls and ceiling and listening to Gilbert talk. He could hear the Mack trucks revving, the bludgeoning of the sledgehammers, the Russian’s eyes and how they lingered on Gilbert’s throat a bit too long.

“My shift ends in an hour and twenty eight minutes.”

Gilbert paused mid-word and stared at Ludwig.

“…On a scale of one to Diana Napolis how much of a stalker would I sound like if I said I knew that.”

“Who?”

“Spielberg’s stalker. Not important.”

“…Why do you- no. Two, I guess,” Ludwig said, glancing over at Gilbert. “Anyway. Odd celebrity trivia aside, I still get off in an hour and twenty eight minutes.”

Gilbert nodded and then mumbled, “I obtained that information by hanging out with you in a friend capacity. You know th-“

Ludwig gently pressed his hand over Gilbert’s mouth, saying a quiet, “Sorry,” before he cleared his throat and lowered his hand.

He wished he had his apron to fiddle with.

“In an hour and twenty eight minutes, would you like to get dinner with me?”

Gilbert blinked slowly, the coffee cup in his hand finally stilling.

He nodded.

Towards the cash register.

“You have a customer,” he said quietly.

Ludwig glanced over his shoulder at the middle-aged couple waiting patiently behind the register. He went over to help them, his voice even more monosyllabic than usual. He gave them their change and was about to turn around when he felt something drape over his neck. He turned and found Gilbert standing right behind him. He raised an eyebrow but Gilbert just smiled.

“Now it’s a cape,” he said seriously, gesturing to the apron around Ludwig’s neck. “Please don’t wear it on our date. You’ll embarrass me.”

Ludwig stared down at Gilbert for a moment, ignoring their sudden audience of two middle-aged people and the rest of the fucking coffee shop.

Gilbert looked nervous and excited and sort of like an escaped mental patient or a shamed extra from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat with different colored syrup spots all over his shirt and some staining his light hair and even in his eyebrow somehow and if either of them was going to cause embarrassment or make people stare and an entire coffee shop hold its breath, it was Gilbert.

It had pretty much always been Gilbert.

Ludwig fixed his apron and returned Gilbert’s hesitant smile.

“Right,” he said quietly, turning on the coffee grinder so no one else could hear.

He expertly ignored the loud, disgruntled noises from the other side of the counter.

“It’s a date.”


End file.
